


The Drowned

by TheStageManager



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, obi-wan gets a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25909009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStageManager/pseuds/TheStageManager
Summary: Qui-Gon Jinn wants so desperately to save his padawan, but not everybody wants to be saved.This story contains graphic descriptions of depression and suicidal thoughts, as well as an attempted suicide. If this is something you struggle with, do not read this story.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 46
Kudos: 246





	1. Chapter 1

The mission was a disaster. Obi-Wan didn’t know what he’d been expecting—it seemed he wasn’t capable of anything other than failure. He’s been off of probation for nearly half a year now. They claimed he was a fully fledged padawan, that his record had been scrubbed, that his betrayals on Melida/Daan and his failures on Telos had been forgotten—but Obi-Wan felt the eyes on his back when he turned away, he knew he was still being observed, the path he walked was paved with ice, growing thinner and thinner under the radiant heat of every blistering mistake.

His failures cost someone their life today.

“He is reckless, headstrong and impatient,” Qui-Gon said as they stood before the Council.

Obi-Wan stood tall, spine rigidly straight,hands folded into his enormous sleeves. He tried to ignore the way every word feels like a knife driven into his gut. There was validity in Qui-Gon’s words—Obi-Wan was all those things and so much worse.

His eyes remained fixed in place, staring just past the masters who were, undoubtedly just as disappointed in his failures as Qui-Gon was. He couldn’t bear to look at them—it is cowardice. Were half the Jedi he was supposed to be, he would be able to bear their scorn and disdain. Nevertheless, he was a failure in all things, unable to accept this passing judgement with even a modicum of dignity.

His skin itched and burned. It was as if his blood was made of lightning. His nails dug into the skin of his forearms until they bled.

A man died because of him.

_It should have been the other way around._

“But all in all, he has done well today,” His Master ended on a note of hope, of pride, of praise.

Obi-Wan, who had been doing so well in his schooled rigidity, broke—he didn’t cringe, but he twisted his head away, his eyes fixed on the ground. His stomach churned angrily. His mouth tasted of copper and bile.

He didn’t deserve such praise.

There was a molten, burning anger that sparks somewhere inside of him, igniting his blood like fuel. He hated the praise. It was entirely undeserved. He hated himself. He should have been the one to die.

“Listening are you, padawan Kenobi?” Yoda’s voice cut through the molten maelstrom in his head, freezing the world around him solid. He realized, in that horrible moment, that all eyes were on him.Shame clawed up his back like a wild animal. The room felt as if it was spinning.

“Forgive me, masters,” he began. His voice was dry and rough, but it didn’t not crack. He would not allow it to crack. “I had allowed my mind to wander. It will not happen again,”

His resentment, his anger, his guilt, his shame rose up like a tidal wave and battered the inside of his worn, rusted shields, but he refused to let anything slip passed. He was tired... so very tired... He ached all the way down to his very core. He felt as if his bones were brittle, as if any pressure at all would cause them to snap. Still, he stood tall. He allowed the pain to sink into his very marrow. After all, he deserved it.

“Are you alright, Padawan Kenobi?” Master Koon asked in a voice that was far too kind and far too gentle. Obi-Wan felt as if somebody had swung a metal pipe against his head.

He schooled his expression into stony neutrality, ignoring the way his eyes burned and his throat felt as if it was closing up. “I am alright. Forgive me for causing concern,” Guilt coiled hot and painful in his gut. He had no right to cause such worry from somebody so kind.

A heavy hand rested on his shoulder and Obi-Wan’s head snapped up, eyes wide.

“Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon asked, voice soft and small and gentle, his eyes filled with compassion that Obi-Wan craves so desperately, but could never hope to receive.

There was something evil inside of him. Something sick and twisted and vile. He wrenched his eyes away from Qui-Gon’s gaze, no longer able to bear the weight of their crippling kindness, no longer willing to risk his master looking too closely and seeing too much.

He would never be able to comprehend why Master Jinn had taken him back after Telos. There was nothing within him worth training, nothing worth loving, nothing worth keeping, _nothing worth anything at all._ And yet, here they stood, shoulder to shoulder, Master and Padawan against all odds.

Obi-Wan couldn’t fathom how Qui-Gon was even able to _look_ at him after all his atrocities. He could hardly bear looking at himself. In every mirrored surface, he saw his own eyes reflected against those belonging to the people he had failed to save: Cerasi, Bruck, Xanatos...

“Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon asked again, his hand tightening in Obi-Wan’s shoulder. His voice was so full of worry, so full of pain... Obi-Wan thought he was going to vomit. The touch on his shoulder burned.

“Forgive me, masters, I have nothing else to add to the report,” he said instead of screaming or vomiting.

He was supposed to feel these things. Guilt and anger... they all lead to suffer, and Obi-Wan was _suffering._

_Good. Let me suffer._

He didn’t deserve to be a Jedi. He was a coward and a fraud. Qui-Gon should’ve left him on Melida/Daan. Better yet, Qui-Gon should’ve let him blow himself up on Bandomeer when he had the chance—that would’ve saved them all some heartache.

“Dismissed you are,” Yoda said, and Obi-Wan nodded, bowing his head and wrenching himself from his master’s grip.

-

“Obi-Wan, we need to talk about your behavior,” Qui-Gon said firmly, as he set Obi-Wan’s plate of food down in front of him.

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan picked up his fork and pushed around some of the steamed vegetables. His voice was heavy with resignation. He kept his eyes down. This was a good conversation. He needed to be reprimanded, he needed to be chewed out, he needed to be reminded that he was _supposed to be better than this._

“I’m worried about you,”

Obi-Wan’s dull eyes flickered up and his chest suddenly felt tight. “Master?” he asked, his voice not cracking.

Qui-Gon sighed. Surely, he was disappointed. Good. Some sick part of Obi-Wan, buried deep in the back of his mind, was excited by this prospect—perhaps if he proved himself enough of a disappointment, perhaps if he _failed enough,_ his master would finally reject him and Obi-Wan could _stop trying._ Wouldn’t things be easier that way? If people would just stop caring, maybe Obi-Wan could finally disappear. Wouldn’t that be nice? Everything would be over then. The hurt would stop. He just wanted to _end._

Perhaps, if he failed spectacularly enough, the Force would reject him, too. If nobody cared for him, nobody at all, not even the Force itself, then he could stop caring too.

But that was wrong, wasn’t it? It was wrong to feel that way. It was wrong to want to die. (He added to the ever growing list of reasons why he was a terrible, terrible Jedi.) Death was not the answer. Death would only hurt people—he had seen how badly Xanatos’ death had hurt Qui-Gon and somehow... somehow the idea of causing his master that sort of pain made him feel even _worse._

All he wanted was to be a good person. He just wanted to stop hurting those he loved.

“You haven’t been yourself in quite some time. You are quiet and withdrawn. You over exert yourself, you do not eat, you do not speak... You used to ask me so many questions about absolutely everything. Why have you stopped?” Qui-Gon’s voice was even and steady, but Obi-Wan was smart and clever—he could hear the way it bent around the edges.

“I don’t have any to ask,” Obi-Wan said simply. He watched as Qui-Gon’s expression crumpled, only momentarily, and was crushed. This was the wrong answer.

“Ah,” was all Qui-Gon said, fixing his gaze on his student.

Obi-Wan resisted their urge to squirm childishly and stood rigid still. He deserved the scrutiny he was given. Still, it pained him greatly knowing he had upset his master, and he sought to rectify that immediately.

“I will ask you more questions,” he resolved. Qui-Gon’s expression wilted once again and Obi-Wan felt violently ill. What was the correct answer?

“That isn’t what I want,” Qui-Gon said softly. “I don’t care about the questions, I want you to be happy,”

“I am happy,” Obi-Wan objected, desperation creeping into his voice for two contradicting reasons: he so desperately wanted his master to see that he was _not_ okay, and he so desperately wanted to appease his master so that Qui-Gon would never have to bear witness to the depths and depravities of his pain.

It was such paradoxical thinking: wanting to slit his throat and cry out for help all in the same breath.

“Lying is not the Jedi way,” Qui-Gon said sternly.

Obi-Wan physically recoiled. There was the knife again, burying itself in his chest. He didn’t speak for fear his own bubbling blood would spill past his lips and out his pain.

It wasn’t fair. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To be scolded and reprimanded? He wanted to disappoint, he wanted to be cast off and rejected. He wanted Qui-Gon to see how brilliantly he had failed, he wanted his master to understand that there was no hope for Obi-Wan Kenobi, he was utterly irredeemable.

_So why did it hurt so badly?_

Obi-Wan was quick to school his expression and fix his eyes on Qui-Gon’s. He felt the burning tears clawing their way up the back of his throat and held his breath, stubbornly refusing to let them fall.

He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until his master laid his own on top of them.

“Padawan...” Qui-Gon began, his voice impossibly kind. “What is causing you such pain?”

Everything.

The weight of the entire galaxy bearing down on his shoulders.

But that was an inappropriate answer.

“I’m fine,” he said instead, slowly sliding his hands out from beneath Qui-Gon’s. He felt as if his skin was cracking, breaking away like dried mud. He felt like a raw, exposed wire. Qui-Gon would be ashamed of him if saw the depths of his feelings.

Is that that what he wanted?

If nobody cared, he could finally go away. If nobody cared, he could finally rest.

Does he really want that? Did he really want to die?

No. Of course not. Nobody ever really wants to die. He just wanted the pain to stop.

Obi-Wan was trapped: if he told Qui-Gon about his feelings, Qui-Gon would be disappointed. Qui-Gon would reject him. If he kept his feelings to himself, Qui-Gon would be disappointed, grow weary, and ultimately reject him.

There was no winning this cruel game.

(Which was fine. Obi-Wan didn’t deserve to win.)

Qui-Gon’s hands tightened around his student’s hands. The breath caught in Obi-Wan’s throat. He was cracking. It was getting harder and hard to breath. It was getting harder and harder to shove the feelings away.

“I want to help you,” Qui-Gon said.

“You shouldn’t,” Obi-Wan squeaked and squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m okay,” he said quickly, trying to right himself, but it wasn’t working. Qui-Gon didn’t believe him.

“You aren’t,”

The whole world was breaking into pieces. Obi-Wan has held it all under such tight control for so long and now it was all falling apart. Everything was falling apart—he could feel it spilling between his fingertips.

“I love you, Obi-Wan... I love you so very much. Please... do you know how much I love you? Do you understand how much you mean to me?” Qui-Gon’s voice was cracking and full of so much hurt, so much sorrow.

He had hurt Qui-Gon once again.

Suddenly, Obi-Wan was far away, as if he was watching his body from outside of himself. In an instant, the feelings stopped, drained out of him like blood from an animal carcass. He felt totally empty and completely numb, except for the way his face seemed to tingle and crackle like electricity. He allowed an easy smile to fall across his face.

“I know, Master. I’m alright,” he said in an even tone.

Master Qui-Gon’s face was totally neutral, Obi-Wan couldn’t read it at all. Maybe he didn’t want to read it.

Not everybody can be saved. It was a lesson Obi-Wan had learned the hard way. It was a lesson that Qui-Gon, too, was beginning to learn.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy, graphic descriptions of depression and attempted suicide. Passing mentions to self-injury. 
> 
> If these are things you struggle with, please don’t read this chapter.

Obi-Wan Kenobi has no heart. The place where it is meant to be is dry and cracked and barren. The image that comes to his mind when he thinks of this place is a desert—however, rather than dunes of sand, the landscape is flat and caked in a heavy mud that has baked beneath the infinite suns for so long that it has cracked and solidified, hard as rock. Not even all the waters of Naboo could will life back into this horrid place.

When Obi-Wan thinks of himself, of who he is, he thinks of this image. He calls this place the Big Empty because it is as he is—empty of all things.

The only living that lives in this terrible place are the wriggling worms, writhing miles and miles beneath the surface.

The Big Empty is an unsurvivable place. Obi-Wan cannot cross it, not by himself. It would kill him. It is killing him.

He thinks often of his master and the things the Order teaches him: they teach him of right and wrong, good and bad. They tell him of an impossible duality, of a light side and a dark side—that one must be embraced and the other rejected in its entirety. These teachings cause Obi-Wan distress, he does not like them. If the duality exists inside the self, how can the whole be accepted? Answer: it cannot. If darkness exists within the self, if it taints the light, the whole thing must be cast out.

This is an unspoken rule. This is why he hides himself. Should anybody peer inside of him and see the sludgy, lurking darkness within him, they would abandon him without hesitation.

(He knows this. This is fact. He has already been abandoned once. He cannot take that chance again.)

Obi-Wan Kenobi has no heart. Instead, he has a mass of slimy, contorted creatures, twisting themselves up into horrible, un-untie-able knots in his chest. He feels them wrap themselves around him ribs, writhing their way up his throat. He wants to scream, but that is not allowed. This burning mass of creatures demands only one thing: to be loved. But Obi-Wan refuses them. Love cannot be trusted. Love is not allowed.

It is a strange sensation: slitting one’s own throat and crying out for help all in the same breath.

It is a counterproductive, counterintuitive action. His master would be disappointed in him. But his master does not know, he will never know because Obi-Wan slits his throat, he does not bleed.

He is, after all, entirely empty.

His master confronted him once (that day after he failed so spectacularly, that somebody lost their life) and asked him why he no longer asked any questions. Obi-Wan tried to explain that he had no questions left within him, that he was empty, that there was nothing left. But this was not the right answer.

Obi-Wan has tried to appease his master, had tried to ask more questions (though those questions were just as hollow as he was) but this did not make his master happy, so Obi-Wan once again stopped asking question. At some point, he stopped answering question, too.

“Why?” They would ask. “What’s wrong? What has changed?”

And Obi-Wan would smile brilliantly (because he is very good at lying) and proudly exclaim: “Nothing is wrong, I am fine!”

But nobody really believes him anymore.

They must all be so terribly disappointed.

Obi-Wan Kenobi is lonely. The worms in the clay desert, where his heart was supposed to be, grow more and more restless every day. He can feel them beneath his skin, angry and violent. They are in his bloodstream, and every pulse of blood feels backed up and _aches._ He wants to weep but the tears do not come. He wants to scream but the sound does not manifest. He want to be loved, but he is worth too little.

A boy made of worms is worth nothing more than soil and dirt.

At night, when the worms shift and moan and sleep is tentative at best, he often dreams of the soil, and wonders if he would sleep better buried beneath it.

The world he lives in is mostly empty (just as much as he is). The faces he sees are masks, puppets on strings. They wear false concern for him (he is not worthy of that.) It is a terribly lonely world that Obi-Wan lives in, locked away inside his own head. It is a cold world, where touch is painful and worried eyes make his stomach boil with shame.

The days stretch on and the nights grow endless. His limbs grow heavy and his joints creak, as if he is constantly moving through molten metal—thick and scalding. Food becomes less and less appetizing. He is losing weight. Sometimes, other comment on this. He merely shrugs and feigns ignorance. Eventually, they stop asking all together.

His skin itches constantly, burning with a feverish desire to be held. It is a stupid, foolish desire and he hates himself for it. Sometimes, he imagines his master holding him, bundling him up in his cloak, petting his hair, telling him kind things. When he thinks these things, the worms in his blood shriek and burn—these are the most painful thoughts of all, because they will never happen.

The love he seeks is parental. Qui-Gon is not his father and does not love him in that way. Qui-Gon does not love him at all. Jedi do not love. They do not seek love. And this knowledge only makes Obi-Wan feel worse.

Yet still, he dreams. He dreams and dreams of warm, calloused hands wiping his tears away, of lips pressed against his forehead, and a deep voice that rumbles in pride.

Obi-Wan longs to be held. He wants to cry, to press his tear soaked face against somebody else’s shoulder and receive steadfast reassurances that he is loved, that he has value. He wants to be told that, if he died, he would be missed.

These dreams are nothing more than fitful fantasies.

His master is not an uncompassionate man. However, he is not Obi-Wan’s father. He has no reason to love Obi-Wan unconditionally. He has no reason to love Obi-Wan at all.

(After all, hasn’t Obi-Wan already proven himself unworthy of love with his adamant refusal of Qui-Gon’s love on Melida/Daan? He had betrayed his master, hasn’t he? He had set these things in stone.)

Qui-Gon would hold Obi-Wan at oarms length and deliver a stern lecture over the nature of these feelings, of their inherent darkness. It would not, of course, be a lecture without compassion, without genuine intent, but his master would not hold him, would not reassure him. His master likes riddles and guessing games. His master likes implication. His master’s love has only ever been implied. That ought to be good enough for the student.

For Obi-Wan, stupid and foolish and blind as he is, it is not.

Sometimes, late at night, when the shadows are long and cold across the cracked mud that lines The Empty, Obi-Wan wads up all of his blankets and holds them as if they were somebody who loved him, somebody who could hold him back.

Sometimes, in the middle of the day, when The Empty is hot and vibrating and numb, Obi-Wan’s skin begins to itch, burning with a feverish desire to be held. He dream of a father. Is it possible to grieve over somebody that never existed? When he feels this way, he scratches at his arms until the skin is raw and the writhing maggots inside of him fall silent.

Obi-Wan wanders the halls of the Jedi Temple like a ghost, aimless, lost, uncored. As an initiate, he used to explore the lesser traveled paths of the Temple out of sheer curiosity. Now, he explores them because he does not wish to be found.

His legs, the worms, his missing heart take him to an old tower. They guide him up the stairs. They urge him towards the window. He is very high up now.

Obi-Wan does not dream of flying. He has flown before and he does not like it. Obi-Wan does, however, dream of falling. He dreams of falling and falling and falling. He dreams of a hard impact.

As he climbs up into the windowsill, the worms grow still. Perhaps they have died. Perhaps, if he is lucky, he will die too. Perhaps, if he is lucky, the faithful concrete will catch his fall.

He waits for a moment, listening to the silence, waiting for somebody to appear and tell him that they love him. The sound of a scraping shovel echoes across the Empty as the heavy, stony realization dawns on him that his master has not followed him here.

It was foolish to have hoped he would have.

“Where are you going?” Qui-Gon had asked when Obi-Wan had headed towards the swift pneumatic door. (And Obi-Wan did not see the suffering across his master’s features.)

“For a walk,” Obi-Wan had said. “I will be back soon,”

The last half had been a lie and it made the worms _very_ angry. (But it hardly matters now because the worms have all gone silent.)

“Would you like me to come with you?” Qui-Gon had asked, his eagerness (or perhaps desperation) lost on his too-gone padawan.

“No thank you,” he had said. _I don’t want you to see what happens next,_ he hadn’t said.

Part of him was aware that Qui-Gon only wanted to help. But the worms would never trust it. The worms wanted Qui-Gon to prove his love. The worms wanted to Qui-Gon to suffer. The worms wanted Obi-Wan to die.

Obi-Wan didn’t want to die.

(But dying was for the best. His master would be disappointed, but at the very least, he would only ever disappoint his master one last time.)

“Obi-Wan?”

There is a voice. It is loud and gentle and so full of fear. Obi-Wan knows who the voice belongs to. He doesn’t need to turn around. He doesn’t need to see. He doesn’t want to see.

“Obi-Wan, what are you doing?”

The voice is steady and calm and empty. There is no disappointment in that voice. Why is there no disappointment? There ought to be disappointment.

“Nothing, master,” Obi-Wan’s voice is as brittle as his bones and drying blood. “I just wanted a better view is all,”

This is a lie. The worms hate it when he lies, but they are still. It is an unnerving feeling, anticipating torment but receiving none.

“Please come down from there, we can find a better view somewhere else,” Qui-Gon’s voice is growing rougher, as if worn away by sandpaper.

Obi-Wan’s hands tighten around the wooden frame of the window.

“No, thank you. You don’t have to stay, I’ll be back at our quarters in just a little while,”

“Padawan, please come down,” There is a weight to Qui-Gon’s voice, a heat, a desperation.

“This is for the best,” Obi-Wan says softly, resigned.

“For who?” Qui-Gon’s voice is equally soft, equally pained.

Obi-Wan’s hands are trembling.

“For everyone,” he says, and pain wracks across The Empty at the truth of his words.

“Not for me,” Qui-Gon objects, stepping closer. Obi-Wan is still turned away. He doesn’t see that his master is shaking too.

“Please leave,” Obi-Wan requests. The worms are waking up. They are writhing again. The burning in his skin has returned. He is losing his willpower.

(He only wants to be held.)

“You _do not_ get to ask that of me,” Qui-Gon’s voice is so harsh that Obi-Wan cringes. “You do not get to request that I turn my back and let my padawan die. You do not get to ask me to return to my quarters to clear your things away knowing you are never going to return!”

“But the last time I made such a request, you obliged,” Obi-Wan retaliates, and perhaps he is tempted to fall purely out of spite.

“Leaving you last time was a mistake. I will not leave you now,”

The ground is so terribly unappealing. Obi-Wan feels that he might vomit.

“Please... come down, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon’s tone has become blind and unfamiliar. He has never heard his master beg before.

“I can’t...” Obi-Wan whispers, hardly audible. If he speaks any louder, he’s going to sob.

“Why?”

Obi-Wan is silent for a long time, considering. He shifts forward, just slightly, trying to will back his falling desire. He hears Qui-Gon’s breath catch in his throat and the worms within him twist in horror: his master is frightened. Why?

“Tell me. Please. Anything you have to say, I will listen. Obi-Wan, _I will listen,”_

_“_ Why is there a ‘good’ and a ‘bad’?” Obi-Wan croaks out. “Why can’t I just be me? Everything has to have a good side and a bad side and I hate it. _I hate it._ Why do people only accept the good and reject the bad? Why can’t they just love all of me?”

“I love all of you,” Qui-Gon is quick to observe. “The good parts and the bad parts,”

The worms grow madder and madder.

“You don’t know the bad parts,” Obi-Wan protests.

“Then show me,”

Obi-Wan’s fingers tighten once more. “I can’t,”

“Why not?”

“You will hate me,”

There is a long silence. Obi-Wan still hasn’t turned around. He will not. He cannot bear to see his master.

“Never, Obi-Wan. Never,” His Master’s voice is tight and choked.

“Love,” Obi-Wan whispers.

“What?”

“The bad parts. The Bad Thing within me. It is love. I only ever wanted to be loved,”

“Obi-Wan, I love you!” Qui-Gon protests.

Finally, Obi-Wan twists around. His face is red with shame and marred with tears. Qui-Gon’s shaking hand is outstretched towards him. He so desperately wants to take it.

“Why?” he demands, anger and fire and venom spilling from his mouth like blood. “Why? Why would you do that? You shouldn’t do that! Don’t you understand?”

“Of course I understand,” Qui-Gon’s voice is soft, forgiving.

Obi-Wan’s strength is fading fast. “ _Why?”_ he asks again, his voice full of grief and anguish.

“Obi-Wan... Oh, Obi-Wan... I love you because you are _mine,”_

The air rushes out of Obi-Wan’s lungs as his knees give way, his strength fleeing. He pitches, practically throwing himself away from the window and into the safety of his master’s arms.

His master is shaking. The worms are protesting, angry, but Obi-Wan cannot feel them. All he can feel is the warmth of his master, the heaviness of his arms around him.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan chokes out, and presses his face against his master’s shoulder.

Qui-Gon tucks his cloak around the boy and holds him tight, tighter than he has ever held anyone before. He presses a kiss to the top of Obi-Wan’s head with shaking lips.

“All is forgiven,” he whispers. “All is forgiven. I am here now. You are safe. I will protect you, padawan-mine. All is forgiven,”


End file.
